


When Bravery Abandons Ship

by OnceUponATimeIDied



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 16:37:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17267618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnceUponATimeIDied/pseuds/OnceUponATimeIDied
Summary: She hates him, fears him, might love him. He loves her, can't understand her, might hate her. He's sorry and it's painful and it's them, all them. Tomione.





	1. Death

"I'm going to sit here and watch you die."

His eyes betray nothing but unhindered glee and she's confused. She's confused because Voldemort has always gone after Harry, more than anyone else, but yet, he has not gone downstairs to see the boy, to torture him, to kill him. He is here, with her, waiting expectantly, excitedly, to watch her die. To cause her pain. She is the priority and it doesn't make any sense.

"My Lord, we have the boy in the dungeons, we don't need to bother with this mud-"

And their Lord turns to Bellatrix quickly and the woman cowers.

"Has my most loyal servant started a new trend while I was away? Questioning her Lord?"

And Bellatrix shakes her head. Of course not. She would not dare question her wise, wonderful Lord. She would be more than happy to torture the mudblood. More than happy. And the Lord is glad. He needs his most loyal servant to remain so. And she smiles like a clown that plagues a child's nightmares and Hermione feels sick.

Their Lord sits. His feet planted firmly on the ground, his hands on the armrests, elbows bent, as if preparing to pounce, and the look on his face, the sadistic pleasure he will take in watching her be tortured, almost makes Hermione think he really will pounce. Decide to tear her apart with his own hands and his teeth and his feet instead of having her destroyed with the red blasts and the cursed words escaping Bellatrix's wand and mouth.

But he does not pounce.

He sits and he smiles and he watches and he waits.

He sits and he smiles and he watches and he waits as Hermione's mind tries to run away. As her body tries to numb itself against the pain she is feeling. As Bellatrix cackles, and as tears start streaming down Hermione's face, and as bile starts rising in her throat, and as every fiber of her being is yelling at her to end this, to end this pain, this suffering.

But she cannot.

And he does not pounce.

He sits and he smiles and watches and he waits.

And she cries and she yells and she prays for death and she waits.

"Did you believe I would succumb to your will, mudblood? That you would so easily defeat me?"

Her head is spinning and his words leave her drawing blanks, and, as another round of crimson curses descend upon her body, as she hears Dolohov gain permission to take her once she's half mad, she wishes she wasn't just full of blanks, but real, hard bullets instead. A thousand bullets or twenty or one, racing through her mind so this pain would end, so she wouldn't have to feel every nerve in her body stand and be shot down and continue living throughout it all. Her eyes are wide open, just like her mouth, just like the palms of her hands and her legs and her chest as she spasms in the pain and Voldemort is meeting her eyes. His smile is still present, his eyes still gleeful, but he looks tense, his hands are gripping the armrests, his body half out of the chair without him even realizing it.

And then it's over.

And she's being rescued. And she's trying to see through the tears crowding her eyes, trying to raise her wand and run and throw curses, but her muscles ache. She can taste vomit in her mouth and she wants nothing more than to curl in on herself and sob.

She still sees his eyes, clearly in her mind, the tears not daring to interfere with the image of the glowing red orbs that had never seemed as frightening to her as they did now.

She's trying to run, but she's limping.

She's trying to throw curses at the Death Eaters, but her voice is hoarse from yelling through the pain, at the pain.

She's trying to see, trying to get to safety, but the tears are still flowing, the pain is still there.

She can hear Ron yelling her name in between his curses and hexes. She can hear Harry letting spell after spell erupt from himself, his voice strained, but his words not stopping, nevertheless. And she feels weak. She feels weak because she can do no more than shake and try to yell in a whispered, hoarse voice and she can't think straight for long enough to cast a wordless spell. And she doesn't know how long it was that she was tortured for, how long she was at the mercy of Bellatrix's wand, but she feels as if death is coming for her now anyways, all the efforts of her friends rescuing her are useless, because she is too weak. Her vision is spotty and she feels as if she might black out.

A cold- a cold- something. Something cold cages her arm, but her vision is too fuzzy to see what, and then, suddenly, she's being ripped away from that, ripped away to warmth and comfort, and the horrible squeezing of apparition closely follows and she passes out in the suffocating warmth, in the suffocating nearness, in the suffocating echos of pain that had not left her and she feared never would.

 

 

The voices are murmurs. And then they're whispers. And then they're only hushed. And then they're only talking. And then they're only raising their voice and then, quite suddenly, they're yelling, and her head is pounding, and her eyes open to the dim light of evening at Shell Cottage and waves crashing on sand join the voices of her friends. She's suddenly thankful that they can't risk going to the hospital or St. Mungo's, that she didn't have to wake up to bright, white lights and bustling nurses and doctors with clinical hospitality, but rather, to dimmed lamps and chairs the color of honey-stained wood, and her friends, with concerned faces and weak jokes.

And it's all:

"'Mione, are you sure you're okay?"

"You scared us."

"We're glad you're okay."

"We're sorry we took so long to rescue you."

"It was really Dobby that saved us all, but we couldn't save him."

And then, quieter:

"But she couldn't even take a crutacious."

"She blacked out."

"Maybe she needs to be out of the war for a bit, clear her head."

And, finally:

"But did you see when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named touched her?"

"He almost looked human."

And then quiet.

Quiet, and she doesn't know what to say.

Still, and she doesn't know what to do.

But she's okay.

She can breathe. Bill smells like Fleur's perfume.

She can taste. The air is salty, the ocean unrestrained.

She can see. Harry's hands as they check her forehead for a temperature, his eyes as he feels it going down.

She can touch. Ron's hand on hers, his gaze shifting to her mouth.

She can hear. Her friends. Still discussing Voldemort's reaction. Still wondering what it was. Still worried it puts Hermione in danger. Still worried she puts them in danger.

She can feel. Hurt. Hurt that they think she would ever hurt them. Hurt that that monster feels any connection towards her at all. Hurt that her friends do not trust her. Hurt that she is not strong.

But, she can feel no pain, so she can sleep. She can sleep.

 

 

They win the war.

There was no doubt they would. The good ones always win. And they're happy. They're celebrating.

So many scars were left behind, so many souls were taken, but they're happy. They've won. The Wizarding World is safe and they can live normal, happy, calm lives now. They've won. They've won. They've really won.

But they haven't. She hasn't. The golden trio is laughing and they're being congratulated.

"The Boy-Who-Lived continues the tradition!"

"Weasley really is king!"

"But, honestly guys, we all know we only won because of Hermione's big brain."

And then the book, the copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard that Dumbledore had left for Hermione, her copy, opens.

She has been sorting through the things she had kept in her magical bag, and, of course, the book was in there and she supposed it had somehow heard or felt or known something of the celebrations, of the victory, for it opened to a page that wasn't there before, a page that made Hermione's heart stop beating and her breath stop warming the air before her, but chilling it instead.

It turns out, Dean's comment about Hermione, about how vital she was to their victory, was a severe understatement.

 

 

"What do you mean you've got to go? We just won a bloody war! The only thing you've 'got to' do is stay right here and enjoy a butterbeer, or two, or three, oh hell, a whole case!"

And she's shaking her head and she thinks she feels tears prickling at the corners of her eyes again, because it's not over, not for her at least. There's another leg to the journey and the relief she had felt at their victory was short lived, useless, a lie.

She has to go. Because the war is lost if she doesn't. She promises she'll come back, she'll visit, she has a time turner, after all, she's not stuck there. And, gracefully, fluidly, quietly, sadly, it's all tears and hugs between the trio. It's all the 'thank you's and 'I love you's that they didn't have time to say before and won't have time to say anymore.

She's trying to compose herself. Trying to breathe. Trying to wrap her head around what is happening to her. Trying to understand that her war has not been won, it won't be won for years and years. Trying to not let herself feel all the desperation and anxiety that that truth carries for her.

She breathes.

Dumbledore's letter had asked that she leave as soon as possible, that she talk to himself, his past self, as soon as she arrived. He would have already have had him informed of the situation, she need only arrive.

She breathes.

She's scared. She's so scared of having this big responsibility placed on her shoulders, of not having her friends around to help her, of not being a part of the Golden Trio, and being, just, Hermione, for the first time in years. She'll be alone and in charge of ensuring their victory in the war and she has never been more afraid, more worried, more unsure of herself. But she has to go, it is her duty and duty always comes before happiness.

 

 

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no."

Her knees sinking into the wet dirt, the golden dust shining in the frigid darkness, the precious metal, bent and cracked, lying in a circle around it. And, as many spells as she tries, as much as she bloodies her hands from trying to fix the sharp edges together again, it's no use. The time turner is broken, irrevocably and despairingly so. And she is stuck, because she could only use her own time turner to return and because destroying a time turner while in the past means that there is no return, no way to save oneself. She is stuck and desperate and afraid and sad and so, so alone. And she hasn't been alone in years and she hates being alone and she laughs, because she doesn't know what else to do. She is terrified, she is stuck, she is alone, and she is laughing on the lawn of Hogwarts, fifty years in the past, the echo of celebratory butterbeer still present on her tongue, the confetti still stuck in her hair, but it all fifty years away, it all resting on her shoulders.

She gathers all she can of the time turner and its magic into her bloodied fingers, into her ribboned palms, and she stands, and she shakes her hair back and away from her face, and she walks towards the castle, because it is her duty, and duty always comes first.


	2. Bravery

"I always value bravery."

He meant the statement in seriousness, but he expected her to laugh or smile or, at the very least, berate him for such a low sensibility. But, in between her tense shoulders and distasteful expression, it looks as if her body, and she along with it, aren't sure whether to be uncomfortable or annoyed, so settle on an unimpressed cross of the two.

Obviously assuming that he had ended his interaction with her, she continues scribbling the notes she had missed furiously onto her paper, for she had been late, for what just might have been the first time in her life, her quill moving over the page faster than she casts him a sour glance whenever he catches her eye.

But, he was not done.

"However."

And he can almost feel the exasperation rolling off of her in uncontrolled waves.

"I do believe you have hurt yourself."

And she tenses and he almost, almost smirks. She doesn't want to talk about the bruises adorning the right side, the side closest to him, of her neck, so, he'll talk about it. He couldn't possibly stop now that he's started, that would be rude, especially if the lady is in trouble.

"And no amount of bravery can make you invincible, especially if you need help, Hermione."

His smile stretches wide over his face, his mock of concern infuriating her, and, the way he said her name, whispered or murmured, only happened so because he knows it annoys her whenever he employs such a practice over her title. He practically beams at the bushy-haired witch and she practically cracks her quill with how tightly her hand clenches around it.

And then, suddenly, her hand relaxes, her teeth unclench, even her bushy hair seems to calm down. And her voice is light and airy and she looks at him and smiles, almost sweetly, almost sincerely, "What ever do you mean, Tom?"

And he knows she's only calling him Tom because she knows it annoys him, and he's about to point to the bruises adorning her neck, to force her to answer his questions, to get a solution for the mystery that she is, to understand the only thing that he ever hasn't, but, she only brings more mystery, because the bruises are gone, only the pale, creamy skin underneath the collar of her wrinkled white shirt left behind.

She didn't mutter a spell, she didn't take out her wand, and he doesn't understand. Her smile falters for a second, slipping into what it really is, a smirk, a smirk because she has won, if not the war, then the battle. A smirk, because he is still staring at her neck, as if willing the purple marks to bloom back onto the blank slate. A smirk, because his eyes darken as he meets hers, hers, alight with glee.

And she leans in a little closer, letting her quill rest on the page, and whispers to him, "It's a bit rude not to answer a lady's question, wouldn't you agree, Tom?"

And her smirk is unrestrained now and he's angry, he can at least admit that to himself, but, more than anything, he's curious. This strange girl and whatever her strange world has led her to become, to feel, to think, to will, has piqued his curiosity, and Tom Riddle has really always been very good about having his curiosity sated.

He's about to retort, with some politely worded jab at her that anyone outside of their dueling duo would deem perfect cordiality, as everyone had come to expect from the two's interactions, but, their professor, Professor Slughorn, has announced that they are to brew felix felicis and they quickly split up the ingredient gathering and the tasks listed to make the potion, their earlier battle forgotten as they have school-related matters to attend to.

"Could you juice the squill bulb? I'll grind up the Occamy eggshell."

He nods. It's no problem at all. And hands her the Occamy eggshell and she hands him the squill bulb and he smiles and she's instantly on edge.

"Of course I'll juice it. We wouldn't want a repeat of the Draught of Living Death, now would we?"

And she smiles and would have swatted his arm if her hands weren't preoccupied, but she laughs.

"Hey! That wasn't my fault!"

"Right, right, whatever the lady says."

And she rolls her eyes and shakes her head, but the smile is still present on her face. They cut up the ingredients in relative silence and relative comfort. Tom thinks they would get along just fine if they always had something else at the forefront of their minds.

 

 

Professor Slughorn bounds up to Tom and Hermione as they are leaving, Hermione gathering up her things quickly and clumsily in an effort to get away from Tom as quickly as possible, and Tom amused by the notion, but the Professor halts their progress.

He smiles adoringly, proudly, almost fatherly at Tom, and then he has to turn to Hermione and the same smile simply becomes a stretching of the lips. And, again, her irritation amuses Tom. That special stretching of the lips is a look reserved for Hermione, specifically when Hermione is anywhere near Tom.

"My boy, I hope I will see you at the Slug Club meeting this evening."

And Tom nods, bowing his head at the man that adores him so.

"Yes, of course sir. I wouldn't dream of missing it."

And Slughorn beams as if he had just been presented a box of crystallized pineapple, except, his treat this time is the company of one Tom Riddle and, because he believes the two to be in love, Hermione James. Tom watches Slughorn as he takes a breath before turning to Tom's lovely companion and the stretching of the lips coming over him once again.

"And Miss James, we'd be delighted to have you."

She smiles, her smile as fake and as forced as Slughorn's own.

"Of course, professor."

And the man looks between the two, smiling tightly.

"Professor, if you are done, I do have another class."

And her words, just on the verge of rude, amuse Tom even more and he can see Slughorn is disgruntled by it, but he nods and waves her away.

"Until later, Hermione!" He calls after her and she doesn't turn or speak, only raising her hand in a half wave as she rushes out of the classroom.

"My boy."

The apprehension in his voice, the way Tom sees his hands wring when he turns back around to him, tells him all he needs to know about what kind of a conversation this will be, so he plasters the familiar polite smile on his face while he prepares for the dull words ready to erupt from Slughorn's mouth.

"My boy," He repeats, and Tom's polite smile almost twitches.

"I could introduce you to good girls, from good families. My boy, you deserve at least that."

And a look of practiced interest, vague confusion.

"Whatever do you mean, Professor?"

"It's just that- that James girl isn't a pureblood, is she? No special familial connections? Nothing she can offer you if you were to marry?"

A moment's hesitation, just as he knows would be expected.

"Not that I know of, no, sir."

"My boy, I do not mean to offend you, but I can marry you into a good, prestigious family."

And then the polite smile tenfold. The conscious decision not to tell Slughorn that he is not dating the James girl, because he knows how much she hates the looks Slughorn gives them whenever he sees them together.

"Thank you, sir."

 

 

"Honestly, Tom, there is absolutely no need to ever use an unforgivable curse. The truly unforgivable thing is that you couldn't find suitable and legal replacements for such vile spells in between all your grand knowledge of magic."

Amusement sets off a spark in his mind and it translates into the slightest hint of a smile on his lips, the lightest lick of a flame in his eyes.

"That is not at all true. What could you possibly use to replace, say, the imperius curse?"

She's silent for a moment, a beautiful silent where she lets her lips part to form a tiny gap, where her eyes glaze over and the stars visible from their place atop the astronomy tower shine in them, where she her nose scrunches up the smallest amount.

"Amortentia."

"Amortentia?"

"Amortentia."

"Please, do explain."

And she smiles and he does not know why. Maybe because he is playing along. Maybe because her mind has left thoughts of death, for the very reason she was at the astronomy tower at three in the morning, the very reason he had followed her, was because she had meant to kill herself, and he had meant to stop her, just as he has been doing the entire year.

"Amortentia is the most powerful love potion in the world. It is distinctive-"

"I do not require a textbook definition."

She glares at him, but continues nevertheless.

"Well, amortentia creates a deep infatuation and, say this deep infatuation is between you and I. I could ask you for whatever information I desired, or I could ask you to do whatever it was that I wanted, and you would do it, if only to make me happy and to please me."

He thinks about it for a second and, she's right, of course, but he is Tom Riddle and he cannot possibly be shown up by Hermione James.

"I see your point, but, by those standards, wouldn't felix felicis work much better?"

She stares at him for a second, possibly considering why he's even playing along with her, "How?"

"Well, for one, you wouldn't have to sneak the potion into a drink or force someone else to take it. It's all you. If you wanted someone to do something for you, you would only need to attempt to persuade them and you would undoubtedly be successful."

Silence, gratitude, and then:

"Besides, love couldn't possibly be that strong, Hermione."

"Oh, and I suppose luck is?"

He smiles at her flurry of hair, blowing lightly in the wind coming in through the large glass-less window. He smiles at her furrowed eyebrows, annoyed with the possibility of being wrong. He smiles at her scowling mouth and sparkling eyes, at her sharp tongue and quick wit.

"Hermione, honestly, we both know I'm right. Felix felicis would be a much better substitute for the imperius than amortentia. Just think about it. You can do just about anything when using felix felicis and it'll turn out right, so, if you set yourself to persuading someone, how could they not do your bidding?"

And she's shaking her head, ready to go back to her same argument.

"Tom, honestly, have you never seen someone under the power of amortentia? It's almost scary."

He scoffs.

"Few things are 'scary' and 'love' is definitely not one of them."

She rolls her eyes and the gesture fits in so perfectly with a teenage girl that she finds him smirking when she looks at him again.

"You're awful."

"And, yet, you're still talking to me and not jumping off the side of the tower."

The silence that follows is cold. She wraps her arms around herself and he, for once, doesn't know what to say, what would be the right thing to say, what society dictates he should say. And, for once, it doesn't really matter.

"I always value bravery."

And she scoffs.

"Killing yourself isn't brave, Hermione, it's weak."

And she doesn't say anything.

And he doesn't say anything.

And the air whispers and the stars stare back at them and it's quiet.

He values bravery and killing herself is not a brave thing to do. It's weak. He needs strength. He craves strength. Strength and power are all he searches for, all he wants. She deserves to die if she's not strong enough to handle life.

Yet, he's still here. Still watching her. Still making sure she won't end her life tonight. Still trying to help her, just as he has every three nights for the entirety of the school year.

And, besides all of this, besides the weakness he claims to hate, besides her dislike of him, besides everything and anything, he likes her. Maybe she's not weak at all, maybe she's just been strong for too long.


	3. Flowers

"I brought you flowers."

His eyes are staring into hers and she wants nothing more than to look away. She thinks his hand might be shaking as he holds the blooms up to her. His hair, his suit, his shoes, everything about him is pristine and she doesn't know if it's for the purebloods or for her and, with a bolt that makes her wish for nothing more than to crawl home or into a cave or death, she realizes that the two will soon be one and the same.

And she's all tight smiles and coiled hair in the entrance hall to the Black's mansion. Alphard's arm is around her waist, her cheeks are flushed, artificially and naturally, everything about her sparkling, the dress, her lips, her eyelids. But her eyes are dull, flat, lifeless. Her shining facade breaks with a true look into their golden depths.

She doesn't have a chance to thank Tom for the flowers before Alphard, his drunkenness making him brash, takes the flowers from where they had been gently leaning towards Hermione, dipping slightly in Tom's shaky hands, and swings them over to his side, causing a few petals to scatter and dip onto the polished marble floor in the wake of the harsh movement.

His eyes are alight, his mouth smirking, and Hermione knows it's all an act. She can feel the irritation, the tension in his posture, in how his hand tightens on her waist for a second before minimally relaxing once again. He was nervous, but he had a part of play and Hermione was just so, so sorry.

"Tom, aren't you going to congratulate me?"

And he's smiling widely, in a boyish way, releasing Hermione to wrap his arm around Tom's shoulders and pull the taller, paler, angrier man down, seemingly not giving a thought to appearances or consequences, but just being, instead. And he turns towards Hermione and winks at her, his hair disheveled, a small stain of wine on his white shirt, one of his shoes untied, but it makes her smile, nonetheless. It makes her look towards the ground, it makes a light blush dust her cheeks and Hermione knows she's the perfect image of bashful, the perfect image of embarrassed and happy. It's a practiced image, a portrait they've spent hours on. Because she has to be perfect for this to work.

Then, Alphard turns his dark, expectant eyes back towards Tom his arm loosening around his shoulders, Hermione looking on expectantly at the interaction, praying nothing goes wrong, praying Tom is too busy staring at her to take note of how tense Alphard was, how his left hand shook, how startling the sobriety was in his eyes at that very moment.

Tom seems to take a breath, whether to calm himself or his anger or simply because he did not like the smell of alcohol on Alphard, Hermione did not know, but he did it, nevertheless.

"Congratulations, Alphard," and then, looking right at Hermione, "You've found yourself a lovely, brilliant woman and you are very lucky to be marrying her."

Hermione has to look away, her throat constricting at the things he did not say with his words, but yelled with his eyes. She swallows hard and breathes deep and, when she looks back up, he is still there, still looking at her, and she does the only thing she could think to do: she smiles, politely, amicably, in a way any respectable pureblood wife would smile at any respectable friend of her pureblood husband.

Alphard laughs, too loudly, too closely. Hermione winces and he, her fiance, the man she is to be bound to, releases the man she is afraid of, the man that makes her blood boil, and comes back to her, his hand laying itself gently on her back, he smiles down at her and plants the lightest, gentlest of kisses, even in the roughness and rashness of his state, on her cheek, the thinnest haze of love and lust and who knows what else enveloping his gaze.

"I do like to consider myself fairly lucky."

And he's holding her hand and playing with the ring that's held on it, the simplest family heirloom Alphard could find, but still a big, ostentatious thing.

Hermione chances a glance at Tom and she cannot tell if he is angry or uncomfortable or nervous, but it looks like it's all of the above. He looks as if he cannot decide whether to run away or charge at them. Whether to kiss her or kill her, whether to hate her or love her.

Alphard releases her hand and turns to his friend once again, his boyish grin becoming a vague imitation of the polite smile of a respectable pureblood.

"Please, Riddle, enjoy the party."

And Riddle, Tom, nods, smiles just as politely, a trained expression, and heads into the bunch of purebloods chattering and drinking away.

Alphard and Hermione turn to each other, Hermione's shoulders sagging with relief, her head rising with happiness. And she thinks the words she hasn't said, the words he deserves, the words his tired eyes and trembling hands merit, thank you, thank you so much.

He hugs her then and she's not sure if it's for appearances' sake or because he can't hold himself up much longer, but she accepts it anyways, his arms enveloping her in a warmth and safety that were only a shadow of home, but the closest she'd found in this world so far.

But, of course, they are not done playing their roles. Their night is not over, they must still put on a mask and hide themselves, they must still pretend, they must still plaster smiles on their faces and chatter mindlessly and dance and laugh at purist jokes and live. But, most of all, they must not imagine that this is what their world really is, that they should be allowed to live such simple, easy lives is nothing but a fantasy. They have much bigger things to attend to, much bigger duties to respond to.

So, when Alphard's sister approaches Hermione, when she mentions marrying her cousin, Hermione has to shove down her disgust, she has to smile and wave her hand around her perfect primness and reply that, of course, that was the only choice. Who could possibly think of tainting the Black family with anything but a pureblood, relations be damned. And she thought Walburga had almost smiled, had almost approved of her, but Hermione knew her doubts remained. No one was certain that Hermione was a pureblood, after all. James was not a pureblood name, but Alphard had assured them that her family simply stemmed from a smaller, less well-known group of purebloods and, when this was not enough to satisfy his family, a horrible, angry tantrum from the ever-calm Alphard had shut them up, at least for some time. It did not stop Hermione from receiving glares from anyone who held ideas of pureblood supremacy, but, with her good manners, her good posture, her absolute disgust at anything that was not completely pure, she was slowly, so very slowly, winning these people, soon to be her relatives, over. And every second of it killed her.

 

 

He reaches his hand for the hem of her shirt, pulling his fervent lips from hers.

"Hermione."

And she opens her eyes, slowly, hazily, having forgotten that she was not at home, not with Ron, not happy and safe, but in a dark hallway of Hogwarts, fifty years before her shoes would ever step foot in the building, before her eyes would ever set sight on the wall she was currently being held up against by her fiance. By her wonderfully kind, pureblood fiance. By the uncle of the godfather of her best friend. Needless to say, it was a shocking pull back.

But, she doesn't want to think about that. She wants to be lost in the feel of him on her because, if she closes her eyes, if she breathes him in, she can almost imagine that she is where she belongs, that she never had to go back in time, that her war is over.

But it isn't.

And she doesn't want to think about it.

So, she pulls him back to her, she urges his hand to find itself underneath her shirt, to creep up and grope at her breast and she pulls his head back to her and lets her mind go blank and only feel, because she's so very tired of thinking, of worrying, of living.

But, he pulls back again, and opens her eyes again, and she takes in his disheveled hair, his rumpled shirt, his wet lips, his flushed cheeks, his worried eyes.

"Hermione, are you okay?"

And she doesn't know how to respond. No. Not at all. But she can't tell him that, so she nods, a tiny movement, but doesn't say anything, doesn't want to talk about it, doesn't want to even think about it. She wants to forget, if only for tonight.

"Hermione, if there's something wrong, I'm here for you."

And he's not looking at her, but down at the ground, at the grey stone of the floor and shiny black of his shoes.

"I- I care for you. I want you to be happy."

And he's looking at her again and he just looks so sad and she doesn't want to think about it. She doesn't want to think about how much he's doing for her, how much of his life she's taking, how little she can give him in return.

So, she smiles and she shakes her head and she tries to speak, confidently, to reassure him, but she whispers and her voice cracks and she knows he doesn't buy it, but it doesn't matter, because he's back on her in seconds, the heat of him before her and the frigidity of the wall behind her and she can forget and believe that it's all okay.

It was just when his hand had finished trailing up her thigh, when he was finally reaching the warmest part of her, that she heard the ending of a quiet click-clack of polished shoes, a polite cough into a fist, the words of the last person she wanted to see or think about or hear or know of.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but it is past curfew and public displays of affection are-"

And he stops, realizing, as Alphard rests his forehead against Hermione's, as he lets his fingers drop from her underwear but remain on her thigh, as they both take deep breaths, not taking into mind how incredibly bothered and mussed up they look, who these people are.

Hermione looks up at him, sees his mouth open and close before he composes himself once again. Alphard draws away from her, leaving behind an insignificantly tiny gap and she can't help but suddenly feel unsafe anyways.

It's quiet.

Only a dripping from somewhere down the hall being heard and Hermione doesn't want to look at him, but she has to, so she does.

And he's about to speak, she knows he is, but Alphard steps in, Alphard recovers, and Alphard saves her, like always.

"Riddle, I know you're Head Boy and all, but won't you let my lovely fiance," and he brushed her cheek minutely, looking into her eyes, before turning back to Tom, "Get some head, boy?"

She could swear he almost blushed.

She saw his jaw clench and he shook his head carefully, as if making sure he didn't show too much anger outwardly, carefully working to keep his emotions in check.

"I'm afraid public displays of affection are still against the rules."

And, for some reason, maybe because she saw the chance or because she didn't want Alphard to have to save her again, she spoke.

"Well, if you left us be, it wouldn't exactly be a public display of affection, Tom."

And she smiles at his clenched jaw, at his white fists, at the glaciers of his eyes.

She can see Alphard's amusement, but he only kisses her cheek and says, "It's okay, Riddle, I'll go to my dorm now. Please take care of this beautiful young lady for me."

And she laughs lightly and kisses his cheek and he goes, waving and blowing kisses at her and she can sense Tom's irritation and it only makes her happier.

"Do you need me to walk you to your dorm?"

Alphard rounds the corner and away from her view and Tom's words shake her out of the wonderful-ness of her fiance and she stares at his pink lips and white face and shakes her head.

"No, I think I can find my way."

And she begins walking away and, possibly just because she wasn't feeling particularly shitty at that very moment, she brushes against him, smelling like sweat and perfume and Alphard, and whispers.

"Thank you for the flowers."

And she feels his shoulders sag and a breath leave him and she walks away, to her dorm and her bed and smiles.


	4. More

"I am much, much more than a man."

And she laughs, a soft, light thing that is too quiet and too forced and too sad.

They're staring at the Mirror of Erised, him cross-legged and intent, her with her knees drawn up to her face and smiling, oh so sadly.

She had laughed. He is serious, but he smiles anyways.

"Every man, every person has desire. You can't just- you can't just see yourself."

And he raises an eyebrow at her, through the mirror, and she looks away, draws away, through the mirror and through their bonds and through everything, if she could.

"I mean, you can, of course, but such a thing would mean that you are completely happy as you are."

And then she smiles, a real, true smile, or, at least, the closest he had ever seen on her, "And, my dear Tom, I feel as if you have many a desire left in you."

And it's true that he still has desires, of course he does, but he's not going to tell them to her, no matter how much she may continue to pry, no matter how sad she may look, no matter how much he may long to put a true smile on her face. His desires would frighten her, take her further into the arms of Alphard, take her further away from him.

"Well, what do you see for yourself?"

And she almost seems surprised that he asks, but she turns away from him, to look into the mirror, and he sees her eyes soften, her lips curl up gently, her face relax.

"Home. I just see home."

She balls into herself, her arms tightening around her legs, her head dropping to the joints.

He's tempted to ask her to be more specific, to explain exactly what her mind projects, but he doesn't. He doesn't because he knows she would tell him and he knows that such a thing would upset her and, in this moment, he does not want to upset her. He only wants to sit here and look into the mirror and into her and not worry about anything or plan for anything and, for a moment, just be.

But he can never just be.

"Power."

And she looks confused for a second, her head rising from her knees, her eyes squinting a tiny amount as she focuses on him and understanding his words, having given up on understanding him a long time ago.

"I see power."

And she thinks it's ridiculous. He can see it in the way she narrowly avoids rolling her eyes, in the way her hands tighten around her knees, in the way her jaw clenches, in the way she seems to draw away from him, just a bit.

"You don't believe me."

It's not a question, even if it is framed as one, and she knows this, but she answers it anyways.

"I believe you. I just still think it's ridiculous."

And he doesn't say anything and he knows she expected him to.

"What does power even look like? Is there a shining crown on your head? A pile of skulls beneath your feet? A beautiful woman at your side?"

And he smiles at her now, not through the mirror, as they have been all night, not through this added thing where their futures seem to stray from each other so fully and completely.

"Something like that."

And he can almost swear she blushes.

But it's dark.

And it's late.

And he's afraid his own desire to make her blush is creating such an effect in his mind's eye.

So he doesn't comment on it, tries to forget that such an idea ever crossed his mind.

He simply looks at her and enjoys the moment, lives in the moment, and smiles.

 

 

The velvet rope appears unassuming, unthreatening, the easiest possible barrier to get through to the Restricted Section. Tom Riddle, however, knew that assuming that the facade the rope played on was the truth of its condition would be a disastrous mistake.

The simple velvet rope was laced with spells meant to not allow any person without express permission to be in the Restricted Section to enter said area. Tom Riddle, as may be expected, did not have express permission to be in the Restricted Section, so, he had to take some extra measures to ensure his entry.

He had studied the spells that protected the area. He had found ways to counteract them. He had practiced, in the dead of night, and he knew how to do this. Quickly, easily, correctly. It was all planned out and not a single thing went wrong.

He is the heir of Slytherin and, for the first time in his life, he is so very close to power. Unimaginable power, everything he knew he deserved and was destined for.

And the Restricted Section is beautiful. All the knowledge contained in its dark shelves and ancient books enticed him and, with a sudden shock, with a sudden anger and sudden grave disappointment, he realizes that he's thinking of Hermione. Thinking of how much she would like it here, of how beautiful she would find it, of how much she would appreciate all the knowledge, all the banned knowledge at the tip of her fingers. And, with another rush of shock, he realizes how very similar Hermione and the restricted section are. With another rush of anger, he realizes how much work each of them take to know, how rewarding the experience is. With another rush of disappointment, he realizes how much he is not allowed to have either of these things, how very out of his reach all her knowledge and beauty is.

He tells himself that he will not bring her here. That he did all this work for himself, that he is trying to find the power he deserves, that she would only distract him, with her sadness, with her disapproval. No, he would not bring her here. All this knowledge is for himself, of himself. He would not bring her here.

 

 

"Aguamenti."

She's amused and he was certainly not expecting it and is watered over and confused and she's amused. And he's amused and ready for it all. But so is she.

"Confundus. Langlock. Impedimenta."

And she blocks them all or dodges them or catches them in a shield and she remains unscathed.

But, she's a little out of breath, still gleeful, but winded and, before she can get a word out, he's on her again.

"Incarcerous. Levicorpus. Immobulus. Obscuro."

And it's the last one that does her in, placing a blindfold on her eyes and, in her momentary confusion at the darkness suddenly surrounding her, he is able to cast the spell that would help him win the battle.

"Petrificus totalus."

And it would have hit her, he knows it would have, and he would have cast expelliarmus straight away afterwards to take her wand and he would have won.

But the spell never reaches her. The lightest tint of a shield rose around her and Tom doesn't have to look to his right, to where Alphard is dueling with someone else in the class, to know that he is not looking at his dueling partner at the moment, but at his life partner instead. Tom is sure the protection had come from him and he can't bring himself to be angry as she cancels out the obscuro spell and comes at him. The magic flowing from her lips and wand with practiced ease, her feet taking small steps forward and large steps back, stepping to the side and jumping to the other, always ready for whatever he threw at her, always ready to throw more at him.

And then, after what could have been seconds or minutes or hours, their spells meet each other. Their eyes widen, their magic touches, they gasp, and the force of their power meeting so head-on, so completely, sends them both flying back. Their spines lying flat along the stone walls of the classroom and then both bodies reaching the floor together, the owners of said vessels vaguely disoriented, their backs pained, his mind mesmerized, impressed, more now than ever before and he knows that he must have her. Feelings be damned, she is important and powerful and absolutely stunning.

 

 

Her eyes are wide and glittering, the gothic shelves reflecting in her wide orbs.

She reaches for a book, he doubts it matters which one it is, so long as she can feel one of them, feel the power of this banned knowledge beneath her fingertips, have it become a part of her.

And he reaches to take her hand.

"You can't just take whatever book, it might be cursed."

He sees, now, that she has her wand out, her eyebrow raised.

"It's safe. I checked."

Of course she did. She's Hermione James, always prepared, always ready, and his fascination, his admiration, his elation only grows.

She takes the book. It's red. About magical artifacts or some such thing and he is looking at her, trying to figure her out, trying to understand and then he asks the question without thinking much about it, without calculating what her response might be.

"Have you never wanted power?"

She pauses, obviously unsure of how to respond, obviously weighing her options.

"Yes."

He pauses then, making sure to choose his words carefully, and he knew she was doing the same.

"Why does my desire for it… irk you?"

Another pause.

"I only ever wanted power to bring change."

A glance downwards.

"Er, positive change."

She looks at him and her eyes are tired and almost condescending and the idea of her thinking she's better than him infuriates him.

"You, on the other hand."

She laughs.

"You want power for yourself, solely for the sake of being powerful. And, of course, you don't care what it takes to get there, even if it means joining a pureblood elitist group, besides the fact that you, yourself, are not a pureblood."

He wants to kill her for daring to mention that fact, for knowing about it all, but he can't bring himself to reach for his wand, to draw it out.

"I am the heir of Slytherin."

"And he would be gravely disappointed to see what your mother has done to his precious lineage."

His fists clench, itching to hurt her, but he can't. He can't bring himself to do anything to her.

"I will do good."

"Right."

"However, I must gain power first."

"Even if that means killing thousands? And good for who? The purebloods? The only ones left alive after you've finally taken over the ministry?"

She's tipsy. He sees it now. Her eyes gleam, not just in anger, but in a lack of sobriety. Her words run into each other, her steps wobble. She's saying more than she ever would have before.

And, partially because she's stepping closer to him and he does not want to do anything she might regret, and partially to distract her from an argument, and partially because of pure curiosity, he speaks his next words.

"Let's take over the ministry."

She stops, her words coming to a stop, her eyes clouding with confusion for a second before a child-like laughter fills the air.

"Take over the ministry? Whatever for?"

"Oh, come now Hermione. You cannot tell me you are happy with the condition of the wizarding world. The archaic laws? The discriminatory practices? The far-spread ignorance?"

She frowns, her lips forming a pout, her brow furrowing.

"You're trying to distract me."

"And succeeding, I believe."

She looks into his eyes, gold and hazy and angry and sad, always sad, meeting calculating blue, deep blue, unreadable blue.

"You're lucky I've drank some, or else I would never let this go."

He is amused, of course, at her dizzy display of haughtiness, at her ever-present need to argue with him.

"I'm well aware."

And they merely look at each other, deeply and without saying a word and he thinks he might be able to kiss her, to make her love him, and then pushes his chest, throwing him back.

"Well? Did you not have an idea ready to throw at me? Was I meant to do all the work?"

And he almost laughs and the ensuing conversation is a welcome trip to letting go.


	5. Rather

"I'd much rather stay at Hogwarts than go back to that- to that-"

She almost feels bad for him.

She almost believes the tears gathering at the base of his eyes. She almost believes the stutter in his speech. She almost believes the glaze that comes over the blue of his eyes, like fog rolling in over the sea. She almost believes when they clear and look at her, desperation framed perfectly, in a practiced, rehearsed way. She almost believes. She's afraid of how close she is to it. She's afraid of his practiced ways and all the control they have over her. She's afraid of his fake smile and his true intentions. She's afraid of his pressed shirt and the curl in his hair. She's afraid of his- his- she's afraid of him. The gleam of his eyes, the white of his teeth. The words from his mouth, stolen from a thesaurus or people much higher than him. The fear in Alphard's eyes whenever his name comes up, the way he grips her hand tighter, without meaning to, whenever he walks into the room, and she knows it's not for her sake.

"Alphard asked me to stay with him."

And his eyes are on her in an instant. She's tempted to fall into silence or say far too much, his gaze pushing her on like a tidal wave, but she resists, she stands strong and rides it out.

"For the break only, of course, to get to know his family and spend time with him and whatever else is expected of people about to be married."

And she smiles, without really thinking about it or meaning to, with only the thought of Alphard's smile as she runs her hands through his dark, soft hair running through her mind. With only the thought of his jokes, with the thought of his wit, of his aid, of his love, of hers. And she smiles, without really meaning to. And it's soft and it feels nice to be happy, if only for just a second, before bringing herself back to reality, back to Tom.

"And I don't particularly like his sister."

Tom snorts and she smiles, wide and true.

"I assume you've noticed."

His short burst of joy fades into a mild smile and he gestures for her to continue.

"As such remains true, and as Alphard is often busy, what with being in line to take over his father's position, and as I would very much rather not spend time with his sister or his mother or any member of his family, to be perfectly honest," And she pauses, knowing that she doesn't want to do this, picturing the heartbreaking crestfallen look that would take over Alphard's face when she gave him the news, that this man, this boy that they were working to destroy, would be staying with them in a time that they were meant to enjoy each other's company, to take a step back.

She looks away from the skyline, from where the Great Lake meets the clouds and where the setting sun pulls it all together, to the deep blue of his eyes, deeper than even where the squid resides in the lake.

"So, taking all these things into account, I was wondering if you might want to stay with me- us- at the mansion, I mean."

His eyes widen, his hands, perpetually clenched, release, just a bit, his lips part, an almost unnoticeable amount, just a hint of surprise, all he would allow himself to show before his immaculate control took over once again.

"Only so you wouldn't have to go back to the orphanage. It sounds like a dreadful place and- well, you deserve much more."

He doesn't smile then, he doesn't even look at her. He looks down, at his hands, at his lap, at his thigh brushing hers, at the low light still reaching them from the setting sun, them so high up in the castle, their legs dangling out the side of its stone walls.

She wishes she were dead. If only not to have to spend another second with him, another second forcing herself not to feel, another second yelling at herself that he is evil, cruel, not to be trusted. Another second reminding herself of all the bad he has done and does and will do, if only to avoid holding his hand, touching his cheek, claiming his lips, taking his heart.

He looks at her then, forces himself to smile pleasantly, a true smile too much for either of them to bear, and nods.

"I would be ever-grateful."

And she forces herself to smile back.

 

 

"I can't."

And the room is still for a moment. Globes halting, portraits pausing, wind ceasing.

"It's too much. I- I can't. I can't do this."

"Ms. Granger-"

"James, I use James in this time," And she says it without looking at the professor, her eyes a frenzy around the room, trying to take in everything and anything to avoid letting anything and everything out.

"Yes, of course."

And a pause. Maybe he is waiting for her to reply, but she has no words to say, her mind too full to let anything escape, the ideas bouncing around in her head so quickly that she can't catch any to throw them out of herself and onto Dumbledore.

Perhaps realizing that she is not going to speak or that what she says will not particularly matter or do much of anything to change his argument, Dumbledore continues with his words which pain Hermione so.

"Ms. James, it is very important that you continue this mission."

Her eyes meet his and they are no less worried, her mind no less frenzied, even as his eyes gleam and he offers a gentle smile, a lemon drop, no comfort comes.

"I know it is a lot of pressure. You have not had a second to relax, coming straight from a war, not a moment in between. Your mind has not stopped working since you learned of your magic and I am sure it must be extremely tiring, however-"

And the dreaded halt to his progress, the dreaded switch in direction.

"Ms. James, Hermione, you must continue."

His eyes earnest, the lemon drop that she must eventually accept is old, the outside of it mushy and caramel-like. It does nothing to make her feel better.

"It is the only way for the wizarding world to survive, the fate of it all rests on your shoulders."

That is enough to worry her, to make her breathing come in faster, to make her heart stop for a second and then start again, much too quickly this time.

"And, because you have made it so, on the shoulders of Mr. Black. Stopping now would mean the weight would crush you both, along with any hope of victory."

Of course.

Of course Alphard had to be brought into this. His life would be ruined, his very essence destroyed, all because of her. All because he cared about her and agreed to help. All because he was a good person and she was a terrible, awful human being. And she can't let Alphard be destroyed, not for her, not for him. He is only a part of this because of her and she'll be damned if she lets him die because of it.

She bows her head, her nails dig into the palms of her hands so hard, she fears blood might sprout from the crescent-shaped indentations on her pale skin.

"Think of your friends, Ms. James."

She takes a deep breath. And another. And another. But it still feels as if no amount of air in the world could save her.

"You must stop his rise to power. You must continue to get close to him. You must be the force that changes him."

She looks up at Professor Dumbledore, tears crowding her eyes, her lip trembling when she opens her mouth to speak, her hard swallow when she closes her mouth again, and nods. Not because she feels any motivation to do this, not because she wants to, not because anything other than duty. Giving up would be as if she were the one pulling the fated green spell from the tip of Voldemort's wand like a muggle magician pulling handkerchiefs out of his sleeve. A cheap trick that takes far too little effort but affects the audience, nevertheless.

"I'm glad you've come to see reason, Ms. James. Your role in this is vital for the survival of the wizarding world."

 

 

"What?"

"It would only be for the break, Alph-"

"No."

"What?"

"No, I do not want him staying in my home."

She stops for a second, her mind reeling. He never said no. He was always willing to do whatever she thought was best. But, almost immediately afterwards, she was back at talking.

"Why not?"

Her voice angry, her breath catching.

"Because it is my home and I do not want him here."

She struggles for words, her mouth opening and closing a few times with only sputtered sounds coming out.

"B-but-"

"It is my home, Hermione. Do you have any idea how rude it is to invite someone to the home of another person?"

Her eyes are furious, her hands clenched, her chest rising and falling quickly as she struggles not to yell.

He sighs.

"Hermione."

And she does not look at him.

"Hermione?"

How can they possibly stop him if Alphard won't even let her spend time with him? How can they stop him? How can they save the wizarding world? How can she save her friends? How can she validate all of Harry's pain? Ron's? Mrs. Weasley's? George's? Hers?

"Hermione, look at me, please."

And her anger meets his calm. Her sandstorm meets his breeze. Her fury meets his reason.

"I- I know we need to stop him, I know. We've spoken of little else since you told me the truth, but-"

And he takes a breath. And another. And another.

"I just- I'm afraid, Hermione. Every time I walk down a corridor, every time I think of you, every day that I lay in my bed, trying to sleep, all I can see is him. He is in every one of my thoughts, he fills my days and I'm scared. I am so scared that you will die, or that I will, or just about anyone I've ever cared about, because he is always there. I know I am safe in my home and, Hermione, please, I want to feel safe in my home. Grant me this one thing, this one place where I can still feel okay."

And she hesitates, of course she hesitates.

And he grins, wide and lopsided.

"Besides, between the twenty bedrooms and four dens, where would we ever find space for him?"

And she laughs, light and quiet.

And he doesn't care about the fear that Tom inspires in him. He doesn't care about the dread that fills his heart and mind at the sight of him, he doesn't care about how hard it is to breath like a normal person when he's around, or how often and how tightly he's had to grip his arm or his leg or whatever else to avoid hexing him or running away or both. No, he cares about how he makes Hermione feel. About how uncomfortable she is around him, how her eyes constantly shift towards the door whenever he's around, how her hands tremble and her breaths leaves her unsteadily and shakily.

The break is for them to be happy, to relax, to pretend that they don't have to deal with this, not right now because, besides the fact that they are engaged, that they are due to graduate soon, that the fate of the wizarding world and all that is good rests on their shoulders, they are only kids. They are young and afraid and it is all far too much to handle.


End file.
